Sasori of the red Sand

Sabaku woke up groggy as the first rays of the morning sun hit his face.

He didn't know when exactly he had fallen asleep, but one thing was certain – spending the night outside in the sand had been damn cold and anything but comfortable.

'Shit. I need to get to the main gate fast! I don't even want to know how Sasori will react if I'm late!'

Hurriedly, he brushed the sand off his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair, and tried to shake the lingering cold from his limbs.

No time to waste.

Without a second thought, he activated Shunshin no Jutsu and vanished in a cloud of sand, rushing toward the rendezvous point.

As the technique propelled him forward at high speed, he immediately felt the aftereffects of the freezing night. His body was still sluggish, his reflexes slow, and for a moment, dizziness threatened to overtake him as he arrived at his destination.

Just as he was about to steady himself, his gaze landed on a single figure, maybe 16 years old—and any remnants of sleep instantly vanished.

Sharp, dark brown eyes studied him impassively. His short, fiery red hair was neatly kept, only slightly tousled by the wind. His skin was strikingly pale, almost unnatural against the backdrop of the scorching desert sun, yet his posture was flawless—upright, controlled, as if he stood above the world itself.

Sasori.

The name sent an involuntary shiver down Sabaku's spine, despite the relentless heat beating down on them.

Not Akatsuki-Sasori, not the lifeless puppet he knew from Naruto. No, this was Sasori of Sunagakure, still flesh and blood, still a man and not yet a construct of wood and steel.

His Jonin vest sat perfectly, untainted by even a speck of dust. A dark cloak draped over his shoulders like a heavy shadow, reinforcing the distance between him and those around him. On his back, he carried a large scroll covered in intricate sealing marks—most likely containing his puppets.

Sabaku knew little about Sasori beyond his Akatsuki career. In Naruto, he had been nothing more than a tragic antagonist, a lost genius who had sealed away his own heart.

But here, in this reality, different memories stirred, memories that didn't belong to him, but to Sabaku, the boy from Sunagakure.

Sasori was a legend.

A prodigy who had breezed through the Academy, effortlessly surpassing his instructors. His puppets were said to outmatch those of experienced Jonin before he even graduated. His final examinations were still spoken about by Academy teachers, whispered like myths of an untouchable genius.

A monster in the body of a man.

And now, that very man stood before him.

Sasori regarded him for a moment, his gaze cool, distant—almost indifferent.

"You're Sabaku?"

His voice was calm. No warmth, no hostility. Just neutral.

Sabaku quickly nodded. "Yes."

A brief nod in return, then Sasori turned away.

"We're moving out."

No unnecessary words. No questions.

Sabaku suppressed a sigh and let his gaze wander over the other three team members as they set off.

The first was a lanky boy with spiky, dark blonde hair, standing a head taller than Sabaku. His skin was tanned from the sun, and he carried a perpetual, cocky smirk—one of those guys who always had a snarky remark ready.

The second was his complete opposite—broad-shouldered with thick, bandaged arms, and a buzz cut of jet-black hair. His intense, scowling expression made it clear he was the hit first, talk later type.

Then there was the girl. She was quiet, her chestnut-brown hair tied in a tight ponytail. Her emerald-green eyes scanned the surroundings carefully, as if assessing every possible danger. Her clothes were simple, practical—no excess, no decoration.

'So, this is Sasori's team. And now I'm part of it… at least until we reach Suna.'

A sense of unease settled in his gut.

Had Sasori already begun to question his loyalty to Sunagakure? Was he already on the path to becoming the ruthless puppeteer who would one day betray his village? The one who would push his own grandmother to the brink of death?

Sabaku clenched his jaw.

Without another word, the group set off.

He took a deep breath and followed them into the endless desert.

---

The travel group was silent. Far too unnaturally silent for Sabaku's liking.

More than once, during the short breaks, he had tried to start a conversation with the other Genin—a casual comment about the heat, a passing question about their names or where they were from.

Each time, he got the same response: nothing. No words, not even a shrug.

They just ignored him.

'Are they too scared of Sasori?'

Sabaku cast a glance at their Jonin, who was walking a few meters ahead.

His steps were measured, his gaze always forward, as if nothing around him was of any interest. And yet… Sabaku felt it.

Sasori's eyes kept drifting toward him—or rather, toward his missing arm.

He wasn't sure what was worse: the way Sasori examined him or the cold, indifferent expression on his face, void of curiosity or empathy.

'He gives me serious creeps.'

'What if…'

A sudden impulse shot through him, and before he could stop himself, he spread his chakra outward, activating his sensory abilities.

The effect was instantaneous.

A wave of nausea crashed over him, his breath hitched, and it took everything in him not to vomit right then and there.

Chakra threads.

Thin as spider silk, barely visible, stretched from Sasori—leading directly to the other "Genin."

They burrowed into their joints, through their body openings, through skulls, arms, legs—

Fucking puppets.

These kids weren't alive anymore.

They weren't silent because they were scared. They weren't ignoring him because they didn't care.

They weren't answering because they couldn't.

Sasori had turned his own team into goddamn puppets.

Sabaku froze. His breath caught, his heart pounding like a caged bird frantically beating against his ribs.

'This can't be real… this can't fucking be real! Am I the next victim?!'

His mind screamed for another explanation, anything that didn't mean he was traveling with a caravan of walking corpses.

But the chakra threads were real.

The puppets were real.

And Sasori—

Sasori had noticed him.

Before Sabaku could even retract his sensory field, he felt it.

A slow, creeping sensation, like ice sliding down his spine.

Sasori's chakra had shifted.

It was barely noticeable, a minuscule ripple of attention—but it was enough.

Slowly, very slowly, Sasori turned his head in Sabaku's direction.

And then, he looked at him.

Not just a glance. No.

A piercing, chilling gaze—one that didn't need words. One that made Sabaku's blood turn to ice.

No anger. No suspicion. No irritation.

Just an empty, waiting expression.

It felt like being stripped bare, as if Sasori had just dissected him, layer by layer, and was now watching to see what he would do next.

Seconds passed, thick as tar.

Then, without a single word, Sasori turned away.

His gaze slid off Sabaku, as if he were nothing more than a grain of sand in the desert.

And then—he ran forward.

Steady, smooth, unbothered.

The puppets followed. Their steps were eerily synchronized, as if no one had ever questioned them. As if they had never been anything other than flesh and blood.